by Ken Abraham
Mr. Offitt nodded in agreement. “I know what you’re talkin’ about. We see the same pattern all the way from senior high to elementary school. A fifth grader at Union might be given the same book to use that a white third grader had used a few years earlier across town in Gallatin’s public schools.” The bandleader shook his head. “The same is true when I try to get some band instruments for our students. Once the white children have nearly destroyed them, the school district passes them on to us. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate any instruments we can get for our kids. But it would be nice to get some new instruments once in a while, rather than the old beat-up ones.”
“Well, I’m not as gracious as you, George. The last time one of those condescending Gallatin teachers came over with their out-of-date books and their broken-down equipment, I packed it all up and hauled it right back over there.”
“Ha! You’re a bold one, Frank. But the truth is, it’s the same in every department here at Union—hand-me-downs and discarded equipment. Even our football uniforms and equipment came from somewhere else. At the beginning of the season, I saw our Union players and coaches painting football helmets that had been cast off by the Green Wave. I’m amazed Mr. Malone can keep such a good attitude about it all.”
Mr. John Malone, the school principal at Union High, took his job seriously. A soft-spoken, intelligent, and insightful man, “Professor Malone,” as many of his students and faculty members called him, was proactive about preventing problems before they happened. He gathered the student body together on the bleachers in the gymnasium daily and stood on the gym floor to make his announcements. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he began in a sonorous voice. “Welcome to Union High School, where everybody is somebody important.” He paused and swept his gaze over the students’ eager faces. “That includes you,” he said, pointing to a young woman. “And that includes you,” he said, looking up at a young man on the top row of bleachers. “You all have tremendous potential, and it is our goal, as your teachers and administrators, to help you discover it.”
Mr. Malone ran through the perfunctory school announcements and then concluded by saying, “Now let’s pray and ask God’s blessing on our day.”
The students and faculty respectfully bowed their heads as the principal prayed. Mr. Malone closed his eyes. “Heavenly Father, we thank you for your many blessings. What a privilege it is for us to come to school today. We ask your help in taking advantage of this new opportunity to learn. Open our hearts and minds. Let us discover not merely more information, but let us see your mighty hand in biology, in history, in mathematics, in art, in every sphere of life. Bless our teachers and our students today. Give us a good day at Union High, a day after which each of us can hear you speaking to our hearts, ‘Well done.’” After a concluding “amen,” Principal Malone dismissed the students to begin their classes.
Although Union was not a religious school, either Mr. Malone or his assistant, Mr. Stewart, always began each day with some sort of group prayer. A few who were new to Union traditions sometimes snickered or yawned during the prayers but were quickly reprimanded by those who had been around awhile. Mr. Malone was a deacon in his church and Mr. Stewart was an ordained minister, so they set a spiritual tone for the entire student body. Teachers taught not only information but also values, especially concepts of truth and right and wrong as determined by a biblical code rather than personal whims. To enhance the sense of family and close community at Union, the administration and faculty felt it was important to meet regularly, so they held an assembly every Monday morning and Friday afternoon. Both students and faculty were expected to attend.
Union boasted only about 250 students, and Bill Ligon was known by almost all of them, especially after leading the Union Devils to success in football and basketball. At six feet two inches, Bill was the tallest student in the school.
At the close of his sophomore year, Bill’s coach, Ed Martin, stopped him in the gym one day. “Bill, I want you to work on your hook shot over the summer. I need you to play center next year.”
“But I’m happy as a forward,” Bill protested mildly.
“I know, but we need you at center,” Coach Martin said. “Besides, I want to build the offense around you and run all our plays off you as the center.”
The change proved to be a wise move, and Union’s basketball team turned into a powerhouse during Bill’s junior and senior years, even though only four schools allowed the all-black team to compete against them, playing both home and away games. Other schools either refused to play at Union or did not want the Negro players from Union to play on their “white” courts. Some schools allowed the team on the court but not in the locker rooms or showers. Bill and his teammates dressed on the bus or in a classroom, went in and played the game, and then got back on the bus without being able to clean up afterward. The odds were definitely against them, but everyone at Union knew their team could hold its own against anyone.
Bill moved through the halls of Union High with the ease of a man who knew where he wanted to go and how to get there. In his heart, his dreams reached far beyond Gallatin. Bill recognized that most Negroes who remained in Gallatin found only farm work, picking tobacco or hauling hay, or other grunt work. Most Americans living in northern or western states could not fathom the ferocity of the racial tension and hatred that existed in the South, so at first they welcomed the influx of low-paid workers. For the Negroes, even a low-paying job was better than no job at all. Consequently, the Great Migration spurred millions of black people to move northward in search of manufacturing jobs in Indianapolis, Chicago, Detroit, and other northern cities. Many who left Gallatin in search of work never returned.
“You gotta get out of here,” Mr. Jones, one of Bill’s teachers told him. “Gallatin has nothing for you. If you stay here, your future is sure to be bleak. So when you leave Union, I hope I never see you back here again.”
“Where should I go?” Bill asked.
“Anywhere,” Jones replied. “Anywhere but here.”
But for now, in his senior year at Union, Bill was a superstar. At eighteen years old, Bill was handsome, articulate, well-mannered, and athletic; he seemed to have everything going for him.
“Hey, nice game the other night, Bill,” a fellow student called out as he made his way to class.
“Thanks, man,” Bill replied. “They were tough, but we took ’em down.”
Bill cradled a stack of books under his arm. On top of his textbooks was a copy of Malcolm X Speaks, a collection of speeches by the Negro leader. Many of Bill’s fellow students had no idea who Malcolm X was or why his speeches should be of any interest to them. In Gallatin, radical concepts about racial issues, such as those espoused by Malcolm X, were not welcome. But Bill was intrigued by Malcolm X’s ideas.
He turned to put some books in his locker, and as he did, Martha, one of the prettiest girls in the senior class, eased up next to him. She batted her eyelashes flirtatiously and cooed, “Nice game, William.”
“Hello, Martha,” Bill replied, attempting to pretend not to be interested. But it was difficult for any healthy young man at Union High not to notice Martha.
“Do you have any plans for after the game on Friday night?”
“Just a hot shower and a cold drink.”
“And what about Charlene? She seems to think you belong to her.”
Bill held his arms out wide. “I’ve got no strings on me,” he said and smiled as he closed his locker door.
“Mmm, we’ll see about that, won’t we?” Martha smiled back at Bill as she sauntered down the hallway.
“Hey, Bill!” Joe Malone, the principal’s son and one of Bill’s best friends, shoved the local newspaper toward him. “Have you seen the paper and what those guys are sayin’?”
Bill glanced at the newspaper but didn’t take it. “I’ve got better things to read, Joe. You ought to try reading something other than the sports page.” Bill started down the hall toward his class.
Bill kept walking but nodded his head, indicating his agreement with Joe. Like most of the guys on the Union team, he longed for the day when he might see his picture in the local newspaper. White kids who scored ten points and sometimes less were photographed, but even a star at Union never saw his image in the paper. Neither did any of his teammates.
“Don’t they understand?” Joe went on. “All we want is to see our pictures in the newspaper once in a while too.” He jerked the newspaper open wide. “We’re in the same city, the same sport, same division, and we have the same undefeated record as Gallatin. So why do they get page 1 and we get page 6?”
Bill raised his eyebrows. “Typical. No use worrying about it, Joe. Do I want to see my picture in the paper? You bet I do! But they aren’t going to show a Negro on the front page of the paper, or page 6 either. That’s just typical of the South.”
“Well, it ain’t gonna be so typical when we whip their butts,” Joe said with a huff.
“Yeah, I agree.”
“Bill!”
Bill stopped and turned around, recognizing the voice of his basketball coach, Ed Martin, a large man in his midforties who could still hold his own on a basketball court.
“Hey, Coach.”
“Got a minute?”
“Sure, what’s up?” Bill asked.
“We have a problem. They’re telling me that Roy Jackson is on the verge of being ineligible for the rest of the season.”
“What?” Joe piped in. “They’ve already disqualified Shooter and Doug. They can’t take our team captain too.”
“They can and they will if Roy doesn’t do something to help himself,” Coach Martin said matter-of-factly.
Joe shook his head. “No way! We can’t make it to the finals without our main man.”
Coach Martin nodded. “I agree, Joe. That’s why I need you guys to help me.”
“What can we do?” Bill asked.
Coach Martin shrugged his shoulders. “Roy is slacking off doing his homework. Says it doesn’t matter because he’s not going to graduate anyhow. He’s been skipping classes. Mr. Malone says that if he doesn’t finish his assignments and pass the math test, he will not be allowed to play. I’ve already talked with Roy, and he seems resigned to mediocrity. But maybe if you boys put some pressure on him too, he will come to his senses.”
“I’ll talk to him, Coach,” Bill said. “Roy’s been having a tough time lately. Maybe we can get him some help. A tutor or something.”
“A tutor is a good idea,” Coach Martin said, “but Roy is no dummy. He can do the work. He just has to want it for himself.”
“We’ll see what we can do, Coach,” Bill said.
“Thanks, guys. It’s not just the finals I’m worried about. This is Roy’s life he’s messing up. I appreciate your nudging him in the right direction.”
“You got it, Coach,” Bill said as the class bell rang. Bill and Joe waved at Coach Martin and stepped inside their classroom just as the bell’s tone faded.
After school that day, Bill borrowed the Plymouth station wagon from his mom while she attended a teachers’ meeting. Bill and Joe drove the short distance out of town to a large tobacco farm owned by an elderly white couple, Patrick Bonner and his wife. They drove slowly down a narrow dirt road between row after row of tobacco plants, when Bill spotted Mr. Bonner sitting on his tractor, taking a break. Bill stopped the car on the dirt road and waved. “Hello, Mr. Bonner.”
“Why, hello there, boys. Good game last Friday night.” The old man turned off the tractor’s engine.
“Thank you, sir,” Bill and Joe replied almost simultaneously. They smiled at each other.
“Are you looking for Roy?”
“Yes, sir. We are,” Bill responded.
“I believe he is up at his place. Seems like I saw him there a little while earlier.”
“Thanks, Mr. Bonner.” Bill waved his hand out the window.
The old man put his fingers to his hat and nodded; he fired up the tractor again as the boys headed up to the simple wooden farmhouse built to accommodate the help on Mr. Bonner’s property. In the distance behind the house sat a much larger white house high on a hill. That was the Bonners’ home.
Joe knocked on the farmhouse door, while Bill stood behind him, waiting. No answer.
“Try again,” Bill said. Joe rapped harder on the door.
“Yeah?” a voice called from inside. “What do you want?”
“Hey, Roy!” Bill answered. “Open up. It’s Joe and Bill.”
The boys heard shuffling inside the house. Nearly a minute went by before the door swung open, revealing Roy, a tall, muscular Negro around eighteen years old. He stood aside, dressed in farm coveralls, shirtless and shoeless. “Come on in,” he groused. “Maybe you can help me with this television antenna. I can’t get this thing to work, no matter which way I twist it.” Roy gave the cheap wire antenna a sharp jerk, and the television screen momentarily cleared and then returned to static.
Bill was not amused. “What are you doin’ here, Roy?”
“What’s it look like I’m doing,” Roy shot back in his usual sarcastic tone. “I’m watchin’ TV.”
“You ain’t watchin’ nothin’.” Bill walked over to the television and turned it off. “Why weren’t you in school?”
“Didn’t feel like it. But a better question is, what are you guys doing here?”
“We came to talk,” Joe said.
“Talk?” Roy looked first at Joe then to Bill. “About what? And why here? You guys can talk to me anytime after practice.”
“Don’t you care about the rest of our games?” Bill said.
Roy shot Bill a dirty look. “Sure, I do. You know I’ve never missed a game.”
“Well, you’re about to,” Joe fired back.
“No way,” Roy spat out.
“Joe’s telling you the truth, Roy,” Bill said. “Pop Malone is going to suspend you if you don’t bring up your grades—and fast—especially in math. There’s a test coming up, and if you don’t pass it, we’re sunk.”
“Well, I guess he’s gonna have to suspend me,” Roy said.
“Roy! What’s wrong with you?” Joe yelled, standing almost nose to nose with Roy, his body tense and looking like he was about to punch him. “Don’t you care about the team?”
Bill calmed down Joe with a strong look. “Cool it, Joe. We have enough problems.”
“Of course, I care about the team,” Roy said, “but you guys both know I don’t have a snowball’s chance of passing that math test.”
“What’s the problem?” Bill asked. “Math ain’t that tough.”
“Maybe not for you,” said Roy. “Besides, I ain’t got no problem. I’ve already received my acceptance letter from Fisk University. The coach said I’ll probably be able to start my freshman year. Good ol’ Mr. Bonner is footin’ the bill for me to go to school, so I don’t have to worry about getting a scholarship like you guys. Not that I could, anyhow. But you get my point. I’m all set. I don’t need no more school.”
“You need to graduate,” Bill said icily.
“I’m not like you guys,” Roy snapped.
“What are you talkin’ about?” Joe retorted.
“You know what I’m talking about,” Roy said.
“I don’t have teachers for parents.” He nodded toward Joe. “You, Mr. Principal’s son.” Roy gave Bill a long look. “And you, Mr. Ivy League, Princeton-bound hotshot. Studying doesn’t come easily to me, so why do it?”
“Because you need to finish what you started, that’s why,” Bill said. “Not to mention that the rest of us are counting on you.”
“Ha! You’re sounding more like my grandpa every day, Bill.” Roy’s eyes flashed. “I have to take his guff day and night, and now you’re on my back too. Well, you two and Grandpa can all go stuff it.”
As Roy continued to spew a litany of insults, an elderly man quietly stepped into the room behind him, unbeknownst to Roy. Bill and Joe recognized Roy’s grandfather.
“Ahem!” Joe exaggerated his throat clearing.
Bill held his hands palms out and waved slowly at Roy.
Roy continued his rant. He had already gone too far, but he wasn’t done yet. He pierced Bill with a look. “From now on, I’m doing things my way. Not your way, or Grandpa’s broken-down, sharecroppin’ way, or Joe’s way. I don’t have to please anyone but myself. From now on, I’m doing things the Roy Jackson way. D’ya hear me? The Roy Ja—” Roy turned his head slightly and spotted his grandfather. Roy towered over the short, stocky seventy-year-old, but the senior Jackson clearly was a man who commanded respect. Roy gulped hard.
“Oh, Grandpa! Sorry. I didn’t mean . . . I mean, I didn’t . . .”
Grandpa Jackson didn’t flinch. He gave Roy a narrow-eyed stare, looked him right in the eyes, and said, “You will pass that test, my boy.”
15
ACROSS TOWN AT GALLATIN HIGH, the Green Wave basketball team was scrimmaging at the far end of the gym. Everyone on the team except Eddie, that is. Eddie was at the opposite end of the court, shooting long set shots outside the key, shots that would one day, due to a rule change, be awarded three points instead of two. But for Eddie, they were just normal, everyday basketball shots.
